Page 18 of Buckin' Around

A low, harried breath escapes my chest.

“Fuck me.”

The clock ticks over to midday.

Real goddamn helpful.

The drive to the event at Lethbridge flies past as I’m caught up in my head, my thoughts oscillating between the looming cougar threat and my interaction with Riley this morning.

I know which one I’d rather focus on. But being the overthinker I am, I’m blessed with the ridiculous ability to hyperfocus on both.

And my luck just keeps getting better. The highway is littered with signs for construction work the closer I get to Lethbridge.

At this rate, I’ll miss the pre-event party with Brady.

One of my favorite parts of this whole scene is the socializing. And I do it well. Sometimes too well, earning a side-eye from Brades when buckle bunnies flock my way. What can I say? I’ve never been modest or humble. Traits that have been causing me pause of late.

An hour later, I find a parking spot in the event grounds and weave my way to the bar, dropping onto a stool like it’s a goddamn lifesaver.

“Spence! Buddy, you couldn’t save your best man a seat?” Brady calls out as he moves through the crowd of folks milling about.

“Hey Brades.”

He sits on the stool next to me and raises a hand to signal the barkeep before turning to me. A shit-eating grin spreads over his face. His brown eyes sparkle, and his messy brown hair sticks out from under his brown hat. A few days scruff lines his jaw, and I’d bet he was too busy trying to keep his ranch afloat tolook in the mirror. Between him and Jonesey, I don’t know who works harder for his lot.

Those brown eyes flicker with delight now as he says, “How was your week? Survive another close encounter with that cougar chasing you?”

Why do I tell this asshole anything? I shake my head and sip the whiskey in my glass.

“Barely.” I smile around the glass as I toss the rest of the amber liquid back. It burns its way down my throat. The thought of meeting Riley, the highlight of my week, is almost enough to erase the cougar advances.

Almost.

Brady winks at me. “You ride with me next weekend, and we’ll talk evasive maneuvers.”

“Fuck off, Brades.”

“Turn her in to HR. Surely that fancy place of your old man’s has HR.”

I tamp back my internal groan. HR, my ass. If my father has anything to do with it, my virtue is up for fucking grabs to the highest damn bidder. Luckily, for me, my virtue and I parted ways many years ago. PBR circuit and itsfansturned my weekends into a myriad of opportunities. The higher my score, the more buckle bunnies to pick from.

The thought sits uneasy in my gut.

Okay . . .that’s fucking new.

“Speaking of getting whatever you want. Let a guy make an impression this weekend? I need to make the draft,” Brades says, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sure thing, bud.”

Making the draft means being selected for a PBR team. A paid position. A rodeo athlete who scores points for a team and chases up the leaderboard every event. Last season I was on theBravos with Jones and Knox. This year, it’s anyone’s guess if I make a team.

I mean, it’s not like I need the money. But making a team is like the tick of approval. A sign you made the cut.

Brady raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, right. May the best man win, Spence.”

We shoot down another round before calling it a night. Nobody wants to mount a raging two-ton animal with a hangover. That’s not smart.

So I guess I have two rules.